


seven - wrath

by mollymalone



Series: seven [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:31:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollymalone/pseuds/mollymalone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rufus Scrimgeour and the Wizarding Wars. Set from March of 1970 to August of 1997.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seven - wrath

“Don’t go yet.”

“I should, darling.” She kisses him, chaste compared to fifteen minutes ago. “We have an Easter dinner tomorrow.”

“Let them go on their own,” he murmurs, pulling her closer and kissing her neck, her collarbones, down to her breast. She pushes him away, but she’s laughing, that laugh like tinkling glass pieces, and plastering kisses all over his face. 

“Appearances, darling,” she murmurs, planting a final kiss on his cheek before leaving the bed. A quick spell, and she’s clean, put-together; she grabs her dressing gown off the door, fumbling with the knot for a second. 

Rufus Scrimgeour watches as Maeve Meadowes-Lestrange leaves his bedroom, her dressing gown wrapped securely around her waist, her hair tied up in a neat bun. She’s said her goodbyes, kissed him, and is now going back to the house at the top of the hill, where her husband and daughter sleep, awaiting an Easter with the Pureblood social circle. He looks out the window, not having heard the tell-tale _crack!_ of Apparation yet, and only sees her for half a second before she disappears on the street. He shakes his head; any Muggle could have seen her from there. The wards on his two-room flat are set up to treat her as a resident, meaning besides him and Alastor Moody, she’s the only person who can Apparate directly into the flat. She had done that earlier this evening, showing up in the main room in her dressing gown and a set of lingerie that he’s certain her husband bought her for her birthday. Thirty-five, hardly old enough to have a fifteen-year-old daughter, but he must say that the lingerie was rather good-looking. Crassius does have good taste, after all.

He sighs, stands up to go fix himself a cup of tea, tossing a silver A badge into the pocket of his dressing gown. Might as well pace a bit; he’s on-call, a ridiculous thing the higher-ups at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had instituted. Technically speaking, he isn’t supposed to let Maeve be that much of a distraction when he’s on-call, because the silver A could start whistling and convulsing at any time, and he’d have to be ready to go wherever it takes him at a moment’s notice. Procedures are strict: he should be wearing his Auror’s robes and some decent clothes, not just boxers and a dressing gown, and be ready to fight off who-knows-what, who-knows-where in a second. Still, the last three times he’s been on call, Maeve’s been over, and nothing’s happened. 

The life of the other man, he thinks, setting the kettle to boil and thinking about the dark green lace of Maeve’s lingerie. He could, of course, buy her fancy things, and sometimes does. But if she were to go home in the wrong clothing, or wear unfamiliar lingerie, or make it known to anyone that she’s seeing him, the most revered Pureblood couple in Britain would crash and burn. Naturally, he assumes that Crassius has a woman on the side - he didn’t know Crassius at school, but any woman would fall head-over-heels for the heir to the Lestrange fortune. And he knows that Maeve has other men besides him and her husband; she always has. Even at school, as she got older, she was constantly going to visit ‘good friends’ at Hogsmeade, fielding correspondence from some of Britain’s most eligible Magical bachelors (and some non-bachelors). The Meadowes name had made her famous: a House with fabulous wealth, and a curse on the women to make them good-looking, despite being near-clones of one another. To look at Maeve is to look at her mother twenty years ago, and to look at her daughter twenty years ahead. Dark red hair, pale skin, grey eyes like pieces of flint. He has a sneaking suspicion that their personalities are also all the same, as the previous five Meadowes women have all died through some sort of altercation between lovers and husbands. 

Despite all this, he lets her into his bed, lets her into his life. There’s evidence of her all over the flat - her magazines and books by the sofa, her favorite tea in the kitchen cabinet, her cigarettes smoking in the ashtrays. There’s no photographs of her; he doesn’t want to make it that obvious. Silly and all, but it’d be much easier to say that the things she leaves behind are just the belongings of any other woman. Put photographs in there, and his lies would be flimsier than the paper they’re printed on. Auror practicality, she’d said once. He’d nodded with a rueful grin. In the bedroom, he can still smell her perfume on the sheets. She keeps basic toiletries in the bathroom. Other than that, it’s as though any other woman could be spending inordinate amounts of time here.

He pours his tea, allows himself a cigarette. Filthy Muggle habit, as Alastor is wont to say, but Alastor has a few filthy Muggle habits of his own. Tea and cigarettes - how quintessentially British, he thinks, leaning against the counter. His two-room flat suddenly seems very big and very empty, and he feels very alone. It’s not a sort of alone that can be cured by taking the Silencing Charms off the walls and allowing him to hear the other inhabitants of the building, but a sort of alone that makes him take a hearty drag off his cigarette and stare out the window. Something profound, as he had felt when his mother passed on, all those years ago. Like the space between his ribcages and right under his breastbone was void of anything, a dull pain accompanying this.

He’s hardly finished his cigarette when the silver A badge starts shaking violently, a high-pitched shriek coming from it. Out of all nights, tonight’s the one where he’s called him, when he would like nothing more than to pass out in bed until his shift tomorrow. Cursing, he magics on his Auror robes , makes sure they’re on properly and hopes he doesn’t look too shabby, and grasps the badge in his hand. The points of the letter poke his skin uncomfortably, and he realizes too late that it’s a Portkey - _of fuckin’ course it’s a bloody Portkey, you idiot!_ he thinks, exasperated with himself as the badge pulls him through time and space. He’s always thought of Portkeys as smaller, less clumsy versions of that telephone box from Muggle television, traveling through time and space, and by the time he finishes that thought, he’s deposited none-too-gently in front of a grand house.

His stomach at once plummets and races for his throat.

‘House’ is an inappropriate word for the grey stone manor, with its four stories and towers going up at the corners, arch over the doorway, five chimneys, practically screaming wealth and excess. He’s been here before, gone to parties here before, at the House in the Highlands, as people called it. The parties are, for the most part, legendary; invitations are some of the most sought-after in Pureblood society. Not that Rufus would count himself as Pureblood society, per se, especially as the Scrimgeour family isn’t part of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight, though Rufus’ mother had been a Malfoy… he pushes the thought from his mind. Now is not the time to consider why some consider him Pureblood and some don’t; to be quite honest, he couldn’t care less. Especially right now. He looks up at the House, and feels ill. Besides the wealth and excess is a green cloud, the color of tree leaves and grass in summer, glowing as though radioactive. The cloud seems to seep out of the windows and up above the house, as if denoting something. Something very deep in his gut tells him that the cloud is to tell them - _someone died at this house. Beware._

Alastor, appearing out of nowhere, grabs his arm and they start running. Rufus knows it’s no use, that whoever’s in that house is already dead, beyond help. He doesn’t want to say the name until he has real confirmation, until he knows for certain. It could just be - no, that would be worse. Gawain Robards appears and runs with them, as does Sturgis Podmore. Four Aurors, Rufus considers, then shakes it off and keeps running. 

They all skid to a stop at the front door, where Maeve has walked out on shaky legs. He nearly passes out from relief, though the other three draw their wands. After half a second, he does as well. Maeve looks at them, her eyes hollow and bloody cuts on her arms and wrists, ankles and legs. She’s changed since he saw her last, not half an hour ago, now wearing a mint-green shirt and a pair of matching shorts, showing off the ample cuts on her thighs. Looking at her, Rufus would think that she just slaughtered a pig in the least delicate of ways. 

“Aurors,” she says hoarsely. “You’re late.”

“Maeve,” he tries, in his most calming tone. She stares at him and shakes her head. “Maeve, what’s happened here?”

“Maeve’s dead, Scrimgeour. Upstairs. Go. Now. Please. He killed them. Their bedroom. Lord Voldemort. Crassius and Maeve. Lord Voldemort killed them.”

Alastor rushes forward, grabbing Dorcas’ arms as she falls over. Rufus stares in horror, every muscle in his body frozen. “I’m takin’ her ter St Mungo’s. Robards, Podmore, go up. Rufus, go wi’ ‘em.” Robards and Podmore nod and brush past Dorcas; Rufus can hear their footsteps pounding on the wooden floors and up the steps. Alastor looks up at him, while Dorcas shakes, still unconscious. “Rufus, either you take her or I do.”

“You do it,” he manages. “I… Go. Now.”

Alastor nods and Disapparates with the now-screaming Dorcas. Rufus hurries up and follows Podmore and Robards.

The rest, he wishes is a bad dream. They’re lying there, in pools of blood on the fine wood floors. Their faces are that of shock, as if they hadn’t expected to die, and in Maeve’s case, anger. Like she had expected Crassius to die, and for Lord Voldemort (what the fuck is that, anyhow?) to save her. Robards and Podmore are treating it as an investigation, have called in other DMLE reinforcements to try to track this man down. He stands there, staring at the bodies, not doing anything particularly helpful. They know. They all know. Nausea rolls in his stomach, and he runs to the open window, promptly vomits all over Maeve’s rosebushes. The reinforcements arrive. They give him sorry looks. _Sorry your shag died, mate._ Looks they’ll give countless men around the Ministry in the coming days. He lost Maeve. So many other men did, as well. But he lost Maeve, he couldn’t protect her; something inside him tells him that if he had insisted she stay a bit longer, maybe been a bit more persuasive, she wouldn’t’ve died. He wouldn’t be standing here. Less than a hour ago, he was fucking her, her back arching and her body so warm against his, both of them covered in sweat. 

He hears himself give orders and make decisions. They’ll rendezvous back at the DMLE. The bodies will be examined, as if there’s anything to examine. It’s two hours before he can leave - there’s nothing to investigate here. Two people, killed by the Killing Curse, apparently not tortured much. Samples are taken, investigatory wizards do their jobs, and he takes his leave. Stops by St Mungo’s. Alastor’s sitting by Dorcas, while she sleeps fitfully - not much the Healers can do, Alastor says. Dumbledore and McGonagall, her Head-of-House, will be here shortly. A social witch from the Department of Families will accompany them. 

For the next three days, he goes through the motions. There’s a funeral; anyone who’s anyone attends. Dorcas is there, bandaged, sitting between an aunt and an uncle. The Meadowes-Lestrange case has made the tabloids. Everyone is asking who did it. He runs on little sleep, waiting until Dorcas can be brought in for questioning. When she does, he’s the seventh one to interview her; Auror cross-examinations are not for liars or the faint of heart. Seven times, to ensure the truth. Archaic, yes. But the previous six have come through perfectly. 

When he walks into the small, dim room, he’s almost shocked by the young witch’s appearance. There’s a long, ugly scar down her arm, but besides that, she looks like Maeve did at age fifteen. His heart stops for half a second, and the half-smile she gives him tells him she knows. Oh, Merlin, she knows. It’s not a half-smile he’s ever seen on Maeve, either.

“I should thank you,” she says, as he sits down. Her tone is frosty; he can’t quite blame her. “Auror Robards told me you were in charge of everything.”

“I… I don’t know about that,” he says, pulling out her file. “Robards and Podmore and everyone else did a good portion of the work.”

“Either way, thank you.”

“Er, no problem.” He shuffles the pieces of parchment and begins the interrogation. Her answers are everything that’s been listed already, never changing. 

 

“Yes, Lord Voldemort dragged me from my bed to watch them die… No, I did not hear Lord Voldemort come in… No, he did not touch me… Yes, he used a curse - sectumsempra - to wound me… He first bound me with a Full-Body Bind and then used the sectumsempra… I cannot tell you where he came from, or how Maeve knows him… Yes, I believe Maeve had Obliverated me so I would never find out about the nature of her dinner parties, or this Lord Voldemort man… She had dinner parties, where they would talk for hours and hours, but about what… and who was there… I cannot tell you that… Would if I could… I have no idea why… I could not hear them speaking, though I know that they were… The sectumsempra curse put me into such great pain that I couldn’t concentrate on their voices…”

An hour later, and everything’s in order. He shuffles the parchment again, and looks at her. There’s something different about Dorcas, something that hadn’t been present in Maeve; he wonders if the curse is wearing thin. Curses do that sometimes, he knows; after a few generations, they tend to start to peter out. It would make sense, then, that the funny little half-smile on her lips is an expression purely learned from Crassius Lestrange, that there’s something sparking behind the flint of her eyes that he’s seen in the same man before. Crassius Lestrange, five years older than both Rufus and Maeve, whose family could only be described as Purebloods, and wealthy ones at that. Crassius walked with his back straight, robes swirling around him like a cloud of black silk, giving everyone around him the impression of a tornado. He’d had short, combed-over blonde hair, and he had been tall, much taller than Rufus, and nearly a foot and a half taller than his wife. He’d sat on the Wizengamot, the Board of Governors for Hogwarts, and countless other bureaucratic organizations within and outwith of the Ministry. And, that night sixteen years ago, he had taken Maeve away from Rufus.

Rufus doesn’t often feel anger. As an Auror, it’s important to separate oneself from the case; during investigations, he allows himself only a cool indifference. Professional, distanced, impartial. Everything a decent Auror should be, really, and Rufus had learned early on that if you let yourself get twisted up into the cases, you wouldn’t last long. Joshua Wilkins, a Muggleborn but a damn good Auror, had learned that lesson the hard way; Joshua hadn’t lasted long outside of Training. Two years is Rufus’ estimation, remembering the day Joshua came in with a pink piece of parchment and handed it to their boss. Joshua had let things to get him, had let the job take over his life. A man shouldn’t do that, Rufus had told himself. 

Now, however, anger bubbles up in his gut. He keeps his hands from shaking and he prays to whatever Powers That Be that Dorcas doesn’t notice how his vision feels clouded all of a sudden. Maeve was perceptive - and, yes, the look that Dorcas is giving him tells him that yes, she knows everything. He’s been feeling rather transparent lately, as a matter of fact. He clears his throat and slides the parchment into the folder.

“Auror Scrimgeour,” she begins, placing a hand on his. Her hand is small, warm, oddly rough. He glances down at it and then looks back up at her, an eyebrow lifted. “It wasn’t Crassius. I know you don’t like him, but it was always Maeve. That, I can remember. Dad used to come upstairs during the dinner parties, tuck me in, read me a story. He didn’t want any part in whatever it was. Lord Voldemort killed them both because of things Maeve had done… I know that like I know the sky’s blue. Please, if you’re going to hate someone, hate Lord Voldemort. Don’t hate my father.”

He studies her closely - heart-shaped face, pale skin, long dark red hair. The wound on her arm, reminding him that she had no willing part in this. Someone was kind enough to get her a change of robes, a short set styled after the Muggle fashions, in a pale purple color; he wonders if Minerva had. After all, Minerva had decided that Dorcas would be safest in her care, especially as her father’s brother and sister-in-law were currently living in France. It would be best, Minerva told the social witch, if Dorcas could stay in Britain, where her life would be disrupted as little as possible. There are dark circles under her eyes, a reminder that she hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep since the attack, thanks to a vicious man from nowhere. Lord Voldemort. Suddenly, his anger seems misplaced; he knows that Crassius wouldn’t have done anything to kill himself and his wife. As intimidating as Crassius Lestrange was, he had let his wife go on behind his back, never killing her lovers, keeping far away from her extramarital affairs. The few times Rufus had met him, he had seemed polite, nice enough, and it was well-known in the Wizarding World that Crassius adored his daughter with the love of a man who had little else by way of family. Would he have put his wife and daughter in danger? Probably not. Would Maeve?

He sighs inwardly. Maeve was a lot of things, fierce and independent being amongst the top. But, in his heart of hearts, he knows that she was prideful, and would have taken every opportunity to climb a social ladder - even if the ladder hadn’t quite been invented yet. Maeve would have put her family in danger. She might have loved Crassius at one time, and loved her daughter in a strange way at another time, but she would have twisted it to convince herself that she had been doing what was best. And this Lord Voldemort fellow…

Lord Voldemort killed Crassius Lestrange and Maeve Meadowes-Lestrange. There was no way to avoid that fact. It wasn’t even a question of Maeve and Crassius’ political alliances or leanings, it was a question of how evil a man could be to take a young woman’s parents away from her. He had killed, seemingly senselessly, possibly only to get two people out of the way. In the Magical world, Rufus knows, there are better ways to get people out of one’s way than outright murder. And Dorcas, he had maimed Dorcas. Her St Mungo’s records showed that the wound on her arm wouldn’t heal completely, at least not by St Mungo’s standards; she would carry that scar until her dying day. Lord Voldemort had maimed a student at Hogwarts simply because of her parents’ sins. Once again, he feels anger, an unwanted and unbidden emotion. Anger towards Lord Voldemort, now.

Dorcas looks at him, brows lifted. “Can I leave now? I need to pack… Minerva and I are returning to Hogwarts tomorrow.”

He nods absently. “Yes, you may.”

She stands and leaves the room, Muggle-style boots clicking on the stone floors of the Ministry interrogation room. He stays still, trying to suppress the strange anger, trying to separate himself from the case. It won’t help, he tells himself. It won’t bring Maeve back from the dead. 

In the weeks that follow, he’s named Head Auror - for dealing with the Meadowes-Lestrange murder, his predecessor tells him. There’s twenty other just-as-qualified men, he argues, but his predecessor won’t hear it. The Wizengamot votes and he’s retained as Head Auror. His two-room flat is too big for just him now, but he doesn’t move out. He keeps an eye on the tabloids. The rest of the spring is quiet, and the summer is marked by two disappearances - Muggles, really, no one the Wizarding World cares for much. The Aurors investigate it, find the same cloud around the Muggles’ house that was around Meadowes House, only this time, the cloud has a shape: a skull, a snake protruding from the mouth. It takes seven Aurors and a team of Obliviators to clean up the damage; Hit Wizards are assigned to try to hunt down this Lord Voldemort and whatever accomplices he may have. Fall arrives in its usual rainy manner. Things quiet down again. Rufus itches for the day Dorcas turns seventeen, so they can try to retrieve her Obliviated memories and examine them more closely. Until then, it’s a cycle - silence, disappearance. Silence, disappearance. The fall of 1970 comes with one disappearance. He spends his first Christmas alone, and rings in the New Year at the Leaky Cauldron, something he hasn’t done in ages. He notes Alastor’s reticence at joining the rest of the Aurors at the Leaky that night, but doesn’t think too much of it; Alastor’s been cool towards him since he got named Head Auror. 

Like clockwork, there’s another case. This time, it’s a goblin family near Nottingham - all murdered, in the same fashion Maeve and Crassius had been. This time, there’s more information. Lord Voldemort is the ‘Dark Lord,’ and his followers are Death Eaters. It’s scrawled in the goblins’ blood on the wall of their home. 

The years pass, and Rufus finds himself spearheading the campaign against Dark Wizards and the Lord Voldemort. Dorcas Meadowes, having dropped the ‘Lestrange’ from her name, shows up at Auror training and stays on, displaying a tenacity that he wouldn’t have expected from Maeve. She’s sleeping with Alastor, and Rufus can hardly be surprised; there’s little to be surprised about in the war. The war; he never would have thought that he, Rufus Scrimgeour with the funny name and untamable hair, would be leading the war against a so-called Dark Lord. All through it, he feels the familiar anger in his bones, directed at Lord Voldemort. Steadily, like a barometer rising, it turns into what he can only describe as wrath - punishments for captured Dark Wizards become more and more severe under his direction. Interrogation techniques often end in alleged Dark Wizards laying in a quivering heap on the stone floors of the Ministry dungeons. Sturgis Podmore tells him that maybe he’s being a bit too harsh and threatens to oust him for war crimes - Podmore finds himself kicked out of the Auror business, with healthy dose of a Memory Charm cast on him, under the allegation that he’s a Dark Wizard under the Imperius Curse. Everyone believes Rufus on this count; Podmore always was an odd duck. (After the war, he’ll be an Unspeakable, and Rufus will have to write a formal, public apology.) Dorcas Meadowes is captured and held for a month at a Death Eater hide-out; she reveals it as the Rosier Mansion, and the Rosier family is put on surveillance. 

When Dorcas is brought to the Hit Squad ward at St Mungo’s, he the first to visit her. Dorcas, Emmeline Vance, and Marlene McKinnon are the office’s first female Aurors, with Alice Fawley being the fourth and in training when Dorcas is brought back from the Rosier Mansion by Emmeline and Marlene. Coincidentally, the four women are also the ones who seem to throw themselves into danger the most often, and Rufus knows that Emmeline and Dorcas have a bet going to see who can spend the most time in St Mungo’s before the war ends. The four women fight with a vigor that leaves the male Aurors shaking in their boots, willing to do rather daring things in the name of the Ministry. Laying there in her hospital bed, Dorcas looks rather small and white; apparently, starvation had been one of the Death Eater’s tactics. 

“I can’t let you come back until we’re sure you’re not under the Imperius,” he murmurs. She nods, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m going to stay here until that can be proven. Better than going back to Alastor’s or the Offices. Safer.”

“Do you feel as though you’re under the Imperius?”

“No. But then, that’s what they would want me to say, wouldn’t they?” She spares a grin and he takes her hand in his. It’s worse than when he saw her after the Meadowes-Lestrange murder, because without blood covering her injuries, he can see exactly where the Healers applied their potions. Angry scabs cover her body, some looking on the verge of infection, and she’s missing a finger and the tip of an ear; her nose is broken and a tooth seems to have gone missing. “I’ll come back as soon as I can, Boss.”

He smiles. “I know. Thank you.”

“For what, doing what’s right? You shouldn’t have to thank a person for that. Look, visiting hours are almost up, and Healer Pomfrey’s going to have my ass if I’ve not taken my potion and gone to sleep soon. I’ll be back in the Offices as soon as they can verify I’m not under the Imperius.”

He leans over and kisses her cheek. “Until then, Dorcas,” he murmurs. She nods.

“Until then, Rufus. Tell everyone I say ‘hi,’ and that I’m doing alright.”

“I will.”

That summer wears on, and a month after her admittance to St Mungo’s, Dorcas returns to the Offices. They celebrate with an extra ten minutes in their break; there’s no real use in celebrating much anymore. The Prewett brothers greet her with kisses on her cheeks and forehead, and the ladies keep from squealing as they hug her, Dorcas disappearing under the arms of Emmeline, Marlene, and Alice. Shacklebolt’s put in charge of her refresher training, and Alastor claps a hand on her shoulder. Rufus doesn’t miss the look they give each other, apologies and distance between them, but figures it’s a question for another day. Time goes on, the war goes on. They’re stationed at King’s Crossing when the Hogwarts Express rolls into the Platform, but nothing happens - at least the Death Eaters won’t attack children, and Rufus thinks it’s a small concession. 

Throughout it all, he’s noted as having allied with Barty Crouch and together, they fight the hardest against the Dark Menace, as the tabloids call it. Every day, there’s new people named as suspected Death Eaters. Anger is a familiar feeling, but Rufus starts to wonder if he’s become vengeful, wrathful in his reasons for fighting as hard as he does. Is he doing it for the Wizarding World, for the sanctity of magic that they all believe in? Or is he doing it to try to avenge Maeve’s death? Some days, he can barely look at Dorcas without a pang of guilt, painful memories flooding his mind. Others, he looks at Dorcas and it gives him some strange strength to keep going on, one more day. Alastor comes into his office for a chat and bi-annual review; at the end of it, he fixes Rufus with a hard look.

“You were sworn ter protect the Wizardin’ World,” Alastor growls. Everything Alastor says is a growl these days, a tough façade he uses. “Do it fer Maeve, fer Dorcas, whatever. But remember, yer meant ter protect everyone, just like we’re meant ter protect everyone.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “Hatred helps.”

“Wrath helps,” Alastor corrects. “Wrath gets results. Hatred makes ye drink more. Don’t let the bastards win, Rufus.”

Alastor leaves his bi-annual review, passes with flying colors. He also tells Rufus he’ll see him at the Leaky tonight. He does, and he asks where Dorcas is; Alastor shrugs. Since Rosier Mansion, the two have been drifting apart, and Rufus finds he doesn’t care - Alastor’s lips are rough against his, and his hands are larger than any doll’s hands. Alastor comes back to his flat with him, and suddenly, it doesn’t seem so big. The next day, Dorcas has her bi-annual review; as Head Auror, he has minimal oversight over the Hit Squad, and most of the review is to ensure that she’s doing the bare minimum to stay in the Auror Corps. At the end of it, she gives him a questioning look.

“Did ye fuck Alastor yesterday?” she asks, and he notices, not for the first time, that her accent is far looser than Maeve’s clipped Queen’s English ever was. 

“Yes,” he replies, deciding honesty is the best course to take. Besides, it wouldn’t do to lie to another Auror; they’ve all had exhaustive lessons in Legilimency and Occlumency. He trained her himself, when she was new. “Are you upset?”

“Nah. Alastor’s free to do what he wants. I am too.” She gives him a smile and stands to leave. “I know you go to Balthazar’s Palace on Fridays. Until later, Rufus.”

She leaves, and he’s left with a sinking feeling. Aurors are some of the best liars in the business, and he can’t quite tell if she’s bluffing or if she knows for certain. Either way, she’s right, and it is a Friday. 

The war drags on. It seems timed for him specifically: as he feels himself cooling down, the wrath he holds disappearing, there’s another disappearance or murder. Fuel to his fire, like reviving dying embers and coaxing them back into a roaring blaze. Months and years pass in this cycle, until they seem to be at a place where either the Death Eaters move or they do. Stalemate, Dorcas calls it. The Wizarding World’s in pieces around them; no one knows who to trust. Diagon Alley is silent and grey, Knockturn Alley is a ghost town. The Aurors don’t trust one another, even, and the women exchange sharp-tongued remarks. Some days, he feels ready to give up. 1980 comes in like a lamb, and he realizes they’ve been fighting this goddamn war for ten years. Ten years, and the Ministry hasn’t been able to win yet. Ten years, and they might as well have let the bastards win. Moody looses an eye, and it’s reinvigorating for Rufus, it’s more fuel for his fire. Alice Fawley and Frank Longbottom have a baby and get married, and Rufus finds that the chubby baby boy doesn’t inspire him to fight harder the way Moody’s injury does.

Then, Aurors start dropping like flies. There’s been a few deaths throughout the decade, but they’re desperate now. Dorcas and Emmeline are tied for time spent in the ward at St Mungo’s. Aurors are going days without sleep, and Benjy Fenwick is the first to drop. Caradoc Dearborn dies. The Prewett twins fight off five Death Eaters. Marlene and her entire family die. The Bones family is nearly decimated. And still, for Rufus, it’s about Maeve. Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, murdered her ten years ago. Dorcas fits in his bed better than she ever did. Eleven years ago.

It’s only mildly infuriating that it’s a one-year-old infant who defeats Lord Voldemort.

After the death of the Dark Lord, the remaining Aurors move gingerly around the Offices. The wrath Rufus feels doesn’t quite fade; there’s still Dark Wizards to catch. A Hit Squad goes after Sirius Black, who murdered Peter Pettigrew, and he’s sentenced to life in Azkaban. Frank and Alice are tortured, and Rufus feels a fury he hasn’t felt in a few weeks. Death Eaters are suddenly bleeding from the walls, named and un-named, convicted and pardoned; large sums of money trade hands in some cases. In others, Rufus agrees with Barty’s decisions - life in Azkaban for most of those convicted. The trials last three months, and there’s relief across the Wizarding World when they know who they can and can’t trust, now. 

On the evening of the last trial, Rufus crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. It’s over. Everything’s over. The Dark Lord is gone. For eleven years, he’s been consumed by rage, run the Offices with the wrath of a man wronged. He no longer has to do that, he knows, but old habits will be hard to break. 

Throughout the next thirteen years, things change like the weather. Barty Crouch steps down in disgrace, as his son ended up being a Death Eater and he sentences him to Azkaban. The Ministry shunts him towards the International department. Millicent Bagnold runs the Ministry smoothly, reaping the rewards of Eldritch Diggory’s hard work during the war. Personally, Rufus disagrees - Barty Crouch would’ve made a fantastic Minister. His son’s a Death Eater, and everyone knows it; was he expected to treat his son differently than any other Death Eater? Were people going too soft after the war? Had they forgotten the horrors of it so quickly? None of the Aurors have forgotten, though he, Alastor, and Dorcas seem to be the only ones who refuse to go softer because of peacetime. War changes a man, Alastor remarks often. They both feel remorse for Dorcas and Shacklebolt, Emmeline Vance, and all the other Aurors who have known nothing but war. They’re too young, Rufus and Alastor mutter, too young to look carved up. Dorcas celebrates her thirty-fifth birthday, and marvels that she lasted that long. With her scars and streak of grey going through her hair, she looks infinitely older than Rufus remembers himself looking at thirty-five, much less Maeve. Emmeline celebrates her thirty-fifth, and there are shadows of the war in her eyes, like cobwebs in the unreachable corners of a high ceiling. Shacklebolt celebrates his thirty-seventh, and it’s the same story there. Alastor looses a leg in a skirmish in Albania, and is dismissed from the Corps by the higher-ups at the DMLE. 

Sirius Black breaks out of Azkaban, and the Ministry scurries at the sudden activity. Scrimgeour’s made Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Dorcas becomes Head Auror, both ratified by the Wizengamot. Black proves to be untraceable, but the Auror Offices try. Alastor takes a post at Hogwarts, and both he and Dorcas lose contact with him, a separation that gives them both a hollow feeling in their chests, and there’s no reason for it. Their owls are returned letter-less. He feels anger, sometimes rage, but mostly emptiness. Alastor, his closest friend, is no longer his friend. More than once, he catches Dorcas crying, when she thinks he’s asleep. That year passes with emptiness beneath their skins and anger, and in the end, it’s Barty Crouch Jr. And Dumbledore and the Potter lad both claim that Voldemort’s back.

The familiar, missed, feeling of wrath returns to him. Barty Crouch Jr took away Alastor, and took away something from both him and Dorcas. As Alastor lays in his bed at Meadowes House, where Dorcas keeps up a rather spartan residence, he and Dorcas watch over him, nervous ghosts trying to keep him on the side of the living.

“Reckon the Dark Lord’s back?” she asks, as they’re sitting on the sofa in a drawing room one evening. Rufus can only assume that the dinner Dorcas’s made for them is her own version of comfort food, a plate of what she refers to as neeps and tatties, but he doesn’t complain. They’ve both taken a short holiday to care for Alastor. Dorcas looks drawn, her face always worried these days, concern etched into the lines of her face. They’re faint lines, yes, but as Dorcas would say, lines nonetheless. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “I think he is. I don’t think, though, that Fudge is gonna take too kindly to that.”

Dorcas nods. “He’s only been a peacetime Minister. He doesn’t want to deal with reality. But that puts us in a strange position, Rufus.”

“Quiet buildup is what I’ll do. You?”

“Tell the Aurors nothing’s certain, but we can’t afford to treat this like any other threat, so we’ll personally be proceeding as though the Dark Lord really is back… The Minister has little control over the Corps, and for that, I’m always thankful.” She pauses. “Is this how you felt? When Maeve died and the First War started?”

“First War?”

“If he’s back, it’s war. No question about it.”

“Fine. Keep going.”

“Like… I want nothing more than to see Barty Crouch Jr die at my hands. I know he got the Dementors’ Kiss, but I want to be the one to murder him for what he did to Alastor. I want to see the Dark Lord suffer at my hands for what he did to Alastor. It’s stronger than before - I wanted these things in the First War, after what happened at Rosier Mansion, and especially when everyone was dying, but this, somehow, is more. They took Alastor from me, from us, they hurt him, and I want them to pay for it.”

He nods, knowing the feeling well; this is a repeat of March 1970. The old rage is building up, slower this time with the experience the First War gave him, but there nonetheless. He’ll fight. He has more reasons this time, not just the single-mindedness of Maeve’s death, and more reasons only give him more anger. Which, he supposes, makes sense.

Alastor recovers as well as anyone can expect him to, really. He’s more paranoid than ever, but both Rufus and Dorcas are there. Rufus leaves his two-room flat and Dorcas leaves Meadowes House; they all go to Alastor’s modest cottage on the outskirts of Inverness, where there’s two bedrooms and one bathroom, a den and a kitchen with a generous hearth. Everything falls into place; Dorcas often says they’re only sane enough for each other. Dorcas and Alastor go to Order meetings, and Rufus wants no part in it. He knows that it’s Order work that gives the two of them grey hairs, but it’s also Order work that’s standing between the Ministry and the Dark Lord. Life passes in a good way, celebrating the little things. The Dark Lord is spotted at the Ministry, while Dorcas and Alastor are there on Order business, because the Potter lad and his gang of friends decided to break in… Rufus is never quite clear on the details, but the long and short of it is, the Ministry decides that the Dark Lord is back after all. In a way, it’s a relief; Rufus and Dorcas no longer have to double-talk their offices, and quiet buildup is no longer the name of the game. Fudge steps down in embarrassment, and Rufus is named Minister for Magic, with Dorcas taking his place as Head of the DMLE. Kingsley Shacklebolt becomes Head Auror, a position that a few think was long-coming. Alastor still drinks from his hip flask, but Dorcas keeps him occupied by telling him to teach a young Auror some of the skills she’ll need to survive. And they start the offensive and defensive against the Dark Lord. 

And then, Albus Dumbledore dies.

‘Is murdered,’ may be a better way to put it, but it sets Dorcas and Alastor off in a way that Rufus hasn’t seen. And, Rufus supposes, it sets him off, too. Dumbledore was murdered, Dorcas whispers, during the Battle for Hogwarts. Severus Snape killed him. The Wizarding World is thrown into disarray, one of its most-revered men killed. The man who had always stood up to the Dark Lord, dead at the hands of one of his trusted friends. Whatever the case may be, the Potter lad turns seventeen, and Dorcas and Alastor help organize the Advance Guard to get him to the Weasleys’ house, where he’ll be safe. 

The Dark Lord kills Alastor.

The Order can’t find the body.

Dorcas tells him this with a heavy voice, when she returns that evening, tear tracks dried on her cheeks. It’s different than when Maeve died. This time, it’s more personal; he doesn’t want to say it, but he knows (knew, he corrects himself) Alastor better than he ever knew Maeve. Seven years of school, three years of Auror training - really, fifty-one years of friendship. Dorcas doesn’t bother trying to console him; she goes upstairs to their bedroom and lies facedown in their bed, sobs wracking her body. He sits in the chair by the window in their bedroom, staring at the countryside.

He’ll never seen him again, and whatever rage he felt at Maeve’s death is nothing compared to this; Dorcas shrinks back from him once or twice in the coming weeks, murmuring something about not shooting the messenger. They fuck a few times, but it’s wrong and incomplete; the last time, they’re both drunk and they both say the wrong name.

His Ministry is taken from him and in his last moments, all he can think is that he let the bastards who killed Maeve and Alastor win.


End file.
